


to a point, to your knees

by tanyart



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 04:19:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11959578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: They play a different game of darts.





	to a point, to your knees

The knife in Genji’s hand doesn’t break skin when he presses it beneath McCree’s chin to tilt his head up. McCree moves with the motion, half expecting the light sting and cooling sensation of his own blood trickling down his throat. When it doesn’t come, a soft noise of protest escapes from him. His head thumps back against the wall, breathing through the coiled anticipation in his gut. The metal feels deceptively soft, more like a caress even though he knows Genji had meant to make a cut.

Genji withdraws the knife. McCree has to bite back another sound of disappointment, though a part of him wonders how much of it is actual frustration and not desperation. At this point, McCree could confess to either, if Genji asks—and Genji always does have a certain way of asking without having to say anything.

“Hm,” Genji says, inspecting the dull knife with a mild look of annoyance.

It’s McCree’s old switchblade. Genji had gotten down on his knees to unstrap it from McCree’s boot after he had run out of shuriken to use. He eases away from McCree, thighs brushing against McCree’s drawn up legs, eyes briefly passing over him to see if McCree would move. His dark gaze flits just as lightly as the knife over McCree’s skin, prickling and hot.

McCree doesn’t so much as twitch, despite wanting to shift against Genji’s missing weight in his lap. Genji’s got him pinned in more ways than one, and a hand against McCree’s chest is more of a tempt than a reminder to keep still.

Lately, Genji has been coming up with creative ways to back him up against a wall, and McCree has a hard time deciding if it’s the literal or figurative ways that does him in, whether he enjoys Genji pushing him down, or the idea that Genji only has to murmur wicked little things in McCree’s ear to keep him in place.

McCree’s wrists strain above him, high enough that he can feel his top of his head brush against the flat of Genji’s short sword if he sits up straight. There’s a network of small cracks in the wall where Genji had driven the blade in, old crumbling paint flecking into McCree’s hair. Usually Genji has more finesse than that, but it’s a gratifying thought that even Genji had slipped just the tiniest bit in his excitement.

McCree adjusts his tied hands, not too bothered by the prospect of the blade digging into his skin through the one glove he keeps on. His prosthetic taps lightly against the sword with a muted clink, but otherwise he lets his hands hang above his head. With a little push in the right direction, he could easily slice through the ties with Genji’s sword. The option has always been there, but it’s the furthest thing from his mind.

“You’ve got another sword, don’t you?” McCree asks, unapologetic. Sometimes, a dull blade has more use than a sharp one in their line of work. Though, in this case, McCree regrets not sharpening it this time.

The pause Genji gives him is long enough that he smiles ruefully. _There’s_ the unasked question. Genji puts up a good front, but McCree knows Genji has never really been fond of torturously slow games. It’s very nice of him to indulge McCree like this—a concept McCree tries not to think too hard on.

Otherwise, he’d be thinking about it all the time.

“I ain’t too keen on waiting,” McCree continues, finally daring to lean forward as much as he can, which isn’t very much at all. Genji’s hand on his chest gives by a fraction, and the upturned collar of McCree’s shirt snags, pinned back by an embedded shuriken. No doubt there’s a very McCree-shaped outline of pins in the wall, each point catching every loose scrap of clothing on him. Genji’s aim had been very precise, and McCree had been very, _very_ still until now.

To prove it, McCree angles his head, just so he can graze his cheek over one of the shuriken’s three points.

It cuts. McCree licks the bead of blood, tongue catching enough to stain his lips red. It’s not entirely on accident.

Genji’s eyes drop to McCree’s mouth. He wants to kiss McCree, that much is clear. They both want, but Genji puts the blunted point of the knife to McCree’s bottom lip instead.

“A sharp mouth like that, I could use it to whet this blade,” Genji says with a hungry smile.

Now _there’s_ a look that’s going to haunt McCree for the rest of his days. McCree’s mouth falls open, trying to steady his breathing, and the knife slips in. He forgets about the strain in his shoulders, the ache in his wrists, and the other smaller cuts stinging his skin. McCree would do a whole lot worse to keep Genji’s heated gaze fixed on him like this.

Genji presses the flat of the switchblade to McCree’s tongue. McCree can taste the clean, cold metal—though the iron tang he picks up is from his own blood welling down his cheek. He feels Genji slide the knife further into his mouth, turning the blade so artfully that the edges don’t even scrape against his teeth.

There’s not one cut in his mouth yet. McCree imagines the point near the back of his throat, and it makes a nerve in his chest jump, makes him want to swallow it whole or choke it down. Something cool and wet trails down his chin, too viscous to be blood. The way Genji is looking at him now reminds McCree of all the times he’s come up disheveled and messy from between his legs. Genji has an obvious fondness for seeing him all mussed up. It shows in the way Genji’s hand wavers for a quick moment over McCree’s throat, but doesn’t touch.

McCree’s jaw is starting to hurt, keeping his mouth open like this. He bites down on the knife, showing teeth before his lips close over the blade. Some kind of kiss, then, since Genji isn’t allowing it yet.

Genji’s weight settles back in his lap, a gentle rocking pressure. McCree closes his eyes, counting it as a small victory of relief. The blade vibrates as he lets out a low noise, and Genji’s grip on the handle shifts.

Genji pulls, gentle, and McCree releases the knife from between his teeth. He breathes again, head tipping back against the wall, and doesn’t realize how his hips are still moving in small back and forth increments until he cuts himself on the shuriken at his right side.

“Steady now,” Genji murmurs, moving so that his thighs are bracketing McCree’s legs. Being on his knees puts him a little higher than McCree’s eye level, though he seems to enjoy how McCree’s own knee draws up to press under him. The reward for his thoughtfulness is a light flick of the knife point beneath McCree’s eye.

It takes a huge effort for McCree to sit still after that, spine tingling and heat crawling over his body. The switchblade knife in Genji’s hand spins once in a little flourish, drawing McCree’s gaze to it.

His attention caught, Genji places the blade at his thumb and forefinger. He slides the knife between them once to no effect, then another time. McCree can hear the grating metal against each other and then the hiss of steam, knife edge still wet with spit from when McCree had held it on his tongue.

“Shall we see how sharp your mouth is now?” Genji asks, running the knife through his fingers once last time.

This time, the sound reminds McCree of a matchstick lighting mixed with a bell chime. A flicker of sparks fly under Genji’s thumb, embers dying out in the air between them. McCree’s mouth goes dry, heart pounding, and he’s not sure what exactly he wants from this—only that he wants whatever it is Genji has to give him, whether it’s a sharp biting kiss or a cut across his throat.

McCree’s mouth falls open again, waiting, and Genji puts his thumb to McCree’s bottom lip.

It’s searing. McCree jumps, shocked by the unexpected burn from Genji’s still-hot fingers. He had expected Genji’s usual cool touch and teasing grazes. The knife point flits over his chest, feather-light and through his shirt. Instead of cold metal, it’s white hot, almost like it’s cutting him for real.

He can’t help it—McCree bucks up, gasping, and Genji’s thumb at his mouth turns into a firm hold over his jaw. It feels shockingly good, Genji’s hand so close to his throat, holding him by the lower half of his face. McCree hadn’t noticed the effort it took to keep his head up until now. Genji’s palm smells like smoke and burnt metal, making McCree dizzy when he inhales through his nose.

The knife drags over his ragged shirt, already torn by his own doing, thrashing around when he’s surrounded and pinned by a dozen shuriken. Genji hasn’t knicked him once, hasn’t even broken skin like McCree has been waiting for from the start. McCree doesn’t know when he had bitten down at the juncture of Genji’s thumb and forefinger, thready moaning wrenching from his throat, but the world suddenly narrows down to only wants and needs, and McCree pitches forward with a growl, past caring.

He is dimly aware of the sword above him, digging into his wrists once more. His right hand twitches, a sharp pain dancing across the lower part of his palm. Genji’s hand tightens over his mouth, holding McCree back for a second before he uses his other hand to yank the sword free from the wall. McCree’s bound wrists drop, still tied but free to loop his arms around Genji’s neck and draw him in desperately. Blood smears the white armor at Genji’s shoulders as McCree tries to find better purchase, jerking Genji close by the crook of his elbow. He sees Genji’s eyes flicker to McCree’s wrists, but McCree kisses him hard and fast, soft whimpering not entirely a deliberate choice, and there’s the sound of the sword and switchblade clattering to the floor.

Genji doesn’t cut him yet, but his bite finally draws blood from McCree’s stinging mouth. McCree feels himself slump against the wall, held up by threadbare points of his clothes pinned by multiple shuriken. Genji’s hand works its way through McCree’s hair, and he’s got no more knives or blades to use, but everything he does is still honed and sharp to a fine point. He pulls McCree’s hair, turning his head, and runs his tongue over the cut across McCree’s cheek.

“If you bleed any more than what I allow, you _will_ regret it,” Genji says, voice rough in McCree’s ear, and picks up the switchblade again, metal glinting in the dim light. He doesn’t like how his sword had cut McCree’s hand.

McCree makes a strangled noise, trying to nod his concession, but Genji drops his hand down the front of his pants, and while there’s nothing sharp about that, it does punctuate his threat very well. McCree jerks his hips up, lets out stuttering words that nearly sound close to begging.

Genji’s reply is pleasantly muffled and soothing in McCree’s mind, threats or not, but he’s all coiled inside, so strung up as he tries to keep up with the way Genji’s mouth moves over his. It hits him with sudden clarity—that McCree wants nothing more than Genji to use the knife to cut and slice the aching tension away.

Genji grabs his wrists, and McCree looks at him, unthinking, and groans when Genji lifts them back over his head. There’s no sword to pin his wrists back this time, but Genji stares down at him, eyes dark, and McCree would flush, knowing Genji just likes seeing him like this, but he’s already hot all over. Any more heated and McCree thinks he’ll simply bubble over and melt.

Genji grins, sharp, and kisses McCree through the rest of it, rocking up and down in his lap. McCree hears himself grow louder, not so much in the way of his voice, but the shaking in his legs, his elbows bumping against the wall, and his damp clothes dragging and rustling over his skin, everything in him building up until he feels like he’s stretched too thin under Genji.

The switchblade glints from the corner of his eye, Genji’s graceful arcing blade flashing close enough to make McCree flinch. The resounding crack beside McCree’s head echoes. The cold blade slices across his cheek, the first cut Genji has given him tonight, and something in McCree snaps, wire-tight tension releasing, and he shudders with a choked sob.

Genji’s single grip on his hands is tight, keeping him in place. He buries his face into McCree’s neck, nudging him away from where he had driven the switchblade into the wall, so close to McCree’s throat. Distantly, McCree can hear Genji’s softer, stuttering _ah_ , _ah—_ and then Genji stills above him, weight settling to relax against McCree’s chest. Genji’s hand drops from the embedded knife, fingers twitching.

McCree sucks in a shaky breath, lets it out faster than he should. His heartbeat hasn’t slowed, and McCree becomes aware of the thousand cuts he’s given himself. He hurts, all over, and he’s growing lightheaded with exhaustion.

Genji lifts his head, eyes unfocused before he blinks them clear. He takes McCree by the wrists, takes the knife from the wall, and cuts through the binds. He inspects McCree’s bloodied wrist with a furrowed brow.

“That wasn’t meant to happen,” Genji says, pulling McCree’s glove off to reveal a blood-soaked hand. It hadn’t been much protection from the sword in the end.

There’s a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth. McCree carefully bends his head to kiss it, and Genji smiles against his lips. His thumb rubs soothing circles over McCree’s skin as he pulls each of the shuriken from the wall, freeing McCree to slump over him.

Genji buckles under McCree’s enveloping weight, laughing at their slow descent to the floor. He reaches for the biotic field cannister nearby and releases the mechanism. A yellow light floors around them, warm and soothing. The cut across McCree’s palm starts to knit back together, though Genji’s adds his own touch with an apologetic kiss against the healing skin.

“I imagine you did enjoy yourself though,” Genji says, still speaking into McCree’s wrist.

McCree curls over him, content and pleasantly tired to the bones, though he can hear the question in Genji’s voice. “Yes, _yes_ ,” he mumbles from the crook of Genji’s neck, remembering the careful way Genji had pinned him to the wall, point by point. He shivers.

“This was rather messy,” Genji adds, but he lets McCree pin him down in return, splayed over the floor together.

“Next time,” McCree says muzzily, “Next time we can just play darts.”

 


End file.
